We shall be equally matched. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. The remainder of dinner was surreal and stilted. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. What was the matter with the dress? She could not see.
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